


Make Three

by DinosaurTheology



Series: Johnny and Dora [5]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Conversations, F/M, Morning Sickness, Nausea, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 12:44:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6754297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurTheology/pseuds/DinosaurTheology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of queasiness at a crime scene where she has never suffered one before leads Amy to believe she might have caught a nine month illness. She talks it out with two friends and decides it might be pretty cool. Gina, predictably, gets weird about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Three

**Author's Note:**

> B99 isn't mine but I loff it. I dedicate this one to mah sister, who gave me the idea and is the Rosa to my Amy. Seriously. I fret and she hits things.

Detective Amy Santiago considers herself a pretty tough chick. You have to be to make it in her line of work. It's not that she's desensitized to the horrible things she sees on a semi-regular basis, that's a good way to lose the precious little bit of humanity that a cop has left after her rookie watch, that little piece she guards with the ferocious zealotry of a mother bear standing over her cubs. It's just that... some things that might really bother some guys who think that they're beyond getting bugged up by anything. Even one of her seven brothers, Cuban stallions each one of whom thinks he could take a punch on the kisser from freakin' Florentino Fernandez (God rest his soul) might lose a little sleep over the sights and smells of a bad summer morning in the 99.

That's why her reaction to this DB in Owl's Head Park is surprising. It started as a 10-64-Q called in by a (perpetually, to be honest) concerned citizen walking her dog to Rinzuli, one of the 99's career uniform patrol officers but it had become apparent to anyone, by the time that Amy arrived, that it was most definitely and assuredly a 10-55 in all it's soupy, baking glory.

Rinzuli, a big man in his fifties with a mustache and sweat gleaming on his brow, grimaces. He's happy to see her instead of Scully or Hitchcock but... who could be really happy at a time like this? "What do you think, Detective Amy?" he says. "Some poor old skell just bought it during the night or we gots a Son of Sam weirdy doing stuff he oughtn't in the park?"

It's sweet, she thinks, how he and some of the other, older officers always call her Detective Amy... another woman might not like it, and to another woman it might be a sign of derision, but aimed in her direction it is both respectful and affectionate. She smiles her greeting to him and raises her finger to her lips. He hasn't known a true mystery in years, and spends most of his time helping little girls to find their lost kittens or teenagers to find their way home at night so that they don't pick up citations for loitering, but the S Word O Word and S Word are not ones you say together like that, in Brooklyn or the Bronx. The trees have glass ears, after all, and flames spread on the wind.

What she finds when she kneels beside the poor man's body is gruesome but not surprising. He is homeless, judging by the tattered state of the Army surplus jacket wrapped around his thin frame, and once wore a homeless veteran's bushy beard shot through with grey. She say's "once" because what is left above the man's neck could have only in the most charitable sense of the word been called a face and would have, had her guy and usual partner in anti-crime been there, been referred to as "dead dude jerky." The tips of his fingers, peeking out from brown fingerless cloth gloves, have been reduced to rags of red flesh with hints of bone beneath just as the pale, yellow plate of his skull shines in places among all that crimson pulp. One blue eye glares balefully from its socket, perhaps to ask the world how it failed him so profoundly that he met his end in a park and fell to this state. The other is long gone.

"So," Rinzuli says, "what are you thinking, Detective Amy?"

She's thinking, first and foremost, that she's queasy and she shouldn't be. This is ugly, yeah, but she's seen bad stuff--even worse than this, sad to say--in her nearly ten years as a police. Second, to set this gentle old bear at ease, "I think he OD'd on something. Homeless guy, nice weather outside last night and he had himself a little party. We won't know for sure until the ME can tell us something but..." She shrugs. "It's really sad but we're looking at our victim and our killer."

"Yeah," he says. "That's a good way of putting it I guess. Must be what they teach you kids in college. Glad I'm sending my daughter."

A good way, she thinks, when you're feeling this dizzy. It must be the heat. He asks, still worried about some freak stalking the quiet, tree lined lanes of his beat in Owl's Head Park, "So if he just took a little too much of rock or crystal or the hard stuff then what happened to... you know..." He wiped a hand down across his own sweating visage.

"Rats, I'd bet," Amy says. "Or other small, chewing animals. It's the same with his fingers. I'd bet money we'll find chew marks on them."

"Ah, good," he says. "Not good-good, you know, cause... Jesus H. Fuck, but I'm really glad to know that this was just some poor old guy who had a little bit too much of a good time instead of some looney-toon asshole like the one chewed off that dude's face in Miami."

"Yeah, we won't really know until Dr. Rossi can tell us... can tell us..." She wavers on her feet, struggles to keep them and then doesn't know much about the unfortunate homeless man or anything else for a while.

When Amy's eyes flutter open she finds herself on Hitchcock's nap couch with a cold compress on her brow, Gina perched beside her on the ratty old piece of furniture's arm (seriously, the thing must have been here longer than any current officer in the department... maybe since even before New York had an organized police force) and Rosa kicked back against the breakroom coffee table. "Hey," she says. She offers Amy a cup. "Drink. It's water. I'd have gotten you something stronger but..." She shrugs. "There hasn't been anything like that in the precints since the late, great Lennie Briscoe left us."

She takes the cup and sips. "Thank you. Ugh. I don't know what's wrong with me. I just... my head went all funny."

"We know. Rinzuli came charging up the stairs with you in his arms hollering that you'd had a heart attack. I asked the big dummy why he hadn't called 10-13 and for a bus. He said that between the guy with no face and you keeling over like that he just freaked out." She runs a long, pianist's hand through her unruly mass of curls. "Guy with no face? What the hell did you two come across out there?"

"Just a 10-55 that the rats had been after."

She snorts. "Those were some fucking vicious rats."

"You'd be surprised," Gina says. "When Jake and I were little there were some in my building that chased off all the dealers in the neighborhood. They set up their own cookhouse and distribution network in the territory." At Rosa's raised eyebrow she goes on. "I'm serious! People started getting sick from tainted rat crack. The eighties were a terrible time for this city. That's why we started staying with Nana."

"Okay," Rosa says, "number one you didn't grow up in the ghetto or the movie Scarface and number two..." She shakes her head. "I don't know why the hell I'm even having this conversation. You're weird."

"Weird or glorious?"

"Weird."

"Gloriously weird."

"Okay," Amy says. "Tainted rat crack aside I'm still not sure why I fainted like that. I mean, I've been a cop for ten years. I've seen enough gross, awful, nasty and creepy crap that one more man with his face chewed off--crappy as a way to start my morning as it was--shouldn't have done what it did."

"And what did it do?" Gina says. "Make you a touch woozy? Make your tummy do flip-flops?"

"Yeah."

Gina gasps. Her hands fly to her mouth. "Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Ohmigod."

Amy furrows her brow. "What?"

"I think you might be knocked up, lil' pup."

"No," she says. "No. Really?"

"Yup," Rosa says. "Congratulations." She pauses a moment. "Now I'm kinda glad that I didn't give you a little of the twenty-one year old Glenfiddich that's definitely not in the drawer of Scully's desk that he can't open."

"The Glenfiddich that we got you when you made the big giggle pig bust?" Amy says. She manages to get through all the rhymes with a straight face... somehow. "I'm... wow. But what was all that about 'nothing in the precincts like that since '04,' or whatever it is you said?"

She shrugs. "I lied. Detectives are allowed to do that."

Yeah, it's true but... "We're allowed to lie to perps, Rosa, to elicit confessions. It's a little murkier when we're lying to each other."

"Not when Glenfiddich might be at stake. Besides... you can't have any. Not til you pop and I crack it open with you and Jake to celebrate. If Gina's not just hallucinating or some shit."

"I am not. She tugs one of Rosa's dark curls and offer to boop her nose. "And you will watch your tongue in the presence of future Brooklyn royalty."

She raises an eyebrow. "I'll watch yours on the floor if you don't leave me alone. Stop being weird."

"Can't. I have to sing this from the rooftops." She starts talking to Amy's stomach, as if this was already established fact and not just some flight of queer fancy from the brain behind both Floorgasm and Dancey Reagan. "Child, oh child, you will be noble as the wolf, regal as the sky." She frowns. "You might also have a giant head, not be able to hold your booze and have kind of pretty eyes. You've got to get something from your mother, after all."

Rosa, struggle though she might, now cannot keep from smiling. It gleams as brilliantly on her face as it always does. "All this..." She gestures toward Gina. "All this aside... if this is a real thing you're gonna be a great mom. And Jake... will understand how a child thinks better than anyone."

"Yeah..." Amy can't believe it. She zones out, allows herself to meditate for a moment with a cup of tepid water instead of the legendary, promised Glenfiddich. There's a lot to do, especially if this is a real thing, and ohmigod it might be the realest thing she has ever realed... but she is oddly not upset by it. She's in a good place, these days, with good friends and a good guy that she had to figure out how to tell about this if it... you know. Was. There would be worse worlds to bring a little baby into, after all... right? She knew this much, at least, whether they made three now or sometime later on. They'd be a great three to make.


End file.
